#tickles my nostalgia as a final fantasy fan

[inavagrant-a]

I was so out of it this week that I didn't realize my phone already predownloaded honka i star rail.

[ti-bae-rius]

(Imagine Muse B of your OTP buying Grand Theft Auto 5 and playing it every single day. Muse A doesn’t like all the violence and swearing, but after playing online with a couple of other friends, gets hooked too) SIZZY

Simon sat at the table by the kitchen door in what had been he and Jordan’s apartment. Having come home for the summer from the Shadowhunter Academy, this was the only place he felt he could stay. Clary had offered the spare room in Luke’s house. He loved Clary, of course; she was his best friend. But there were still huge, gaping holes in his memory, pivotal moments of their friendship he couldn’t even recall. He knew it would hurt her, knew it did hurt her. It was significantly easier on Clary’s feelings and Simon’s conscience if their times together were fairly brief at the moment.

Simon felt for Jordan’s old Praetor Lupus necklace, the engraved pendant now resting against Simon’s own chest. He hated this, the long expanses of vacation days in the apartment without Jordan there for companionship. He knew he should’ve just accepted his academy roommate George’s offer to come back with him in the holidays. However, he had wanted to come back to his home state. Plus, New York meant the Institute, and the Institute meant Isabelle Lightwood.

He had accepted Luke’s offer to come over to his home for dinner each evening; Simon thought it was the least he could do since Luke was paying the rent for the apartment Simon currently sat in. but the days themselves stretched forever alone. The nights were easier; he didn’t have to think about how much being here made him miss Jordan whilst he was sleeping.

He was so lonely, so desperately needed distracting. He could call Clary, but he didn’t want to, somehow. He could call Jace, but he was beginning to feel Jace had been joking about the two of them being bros. What he wanted was Isabelle, right here beside him. He wanted it so badly it made his heart ache. Before he could think too hard about whether or not what he was doing was sensible, he’d picked up his phone, dialled, and pressed the device to his ear.

“Isabelle,” he said, “Do you want to come over?”

There was a long, long pause. Simon’s chest leapt as he realised what he was doing. When she failed to answer after ten seconds, Simon slid his finger to the button disconnect the call. Then:

“Sure.” Izzy replied, and hung up.

 Somewhere inside Simon, panic reared and he leapt to his feet as if Izzy were to burst instantly through the door. Should he clean up? Probably. He swept mundane newspapers off the dining table and into the bin, loaded dishes into the sink. He could at least pretend that he was intending washing them. Simon then went to the living room, and a wave of nostalgia heaved within his chest. He went over to the couch that reminded him so pointedly of Jordan, and sat down. The blankets that had been draped over the back of the sofa for the many times one of them had fallen asleep here - or the equal number of times the fickle heating system in their shabby apartment had broken - were still there. Simon reached over and took them in his lap. They smelt stale from being left so long, and were slightly dust-coated. Izzy, he reminded himself. He was meant to be cleaning the place up a little. But, he had to admit, he didn’t have the energy. Everything seemed so draining. He tossed the two blankets into the laundry basket in his old room that he had no intention of actually sorting.

All he had energy for now was video games.

 He rested on his stomach on the carpet; a move he felt was particularly risky since the floor looked pretty grimy and when he dug his fingers into the carpet, his fingertips came away grey-dusted. However, living in the slime-coated dregs dormitory meant Simon has developed a rather strong stomach for grim conditions. Unlike at the academy, Simon was almost certain he wouldn’t contract demon pox from lying on the apartment floor. Almost.

He wriggled his arm under the wooden box the TV rested on, ignoring the recognisable tickling of spider webs (and possibly a couple of the webs deceased occupants) against his fingers, and pulled out the games from the dusty depths.

He fanned the boxes out like a pack of cards, surveying the possibilities. Soccer, boxing, baseball – all of those were Jordan’s. Whilst Simon was exceptionally poor at sports in the real world, he had believed his gaming prowess would beat his virtual athleticism. It did not. Simon and sport simply did not mix, in any version of reality.

RPGs. Now these were Simon’s forte. They were better, of course, on a PC, but he could deal with the versions for consoles too. Final Fantasy, Skyrim, Dragon Age, Warhammer. Yes. This was Simon’s area of expertise. Knights and dragons; it seemed odd now that things like the demons he’d always thought with his controller were real, and now he was going to school to learn to fight them with blades. It was crazy. Like some kind of dark Harry Potter scenario.

But Simon didn’t feel like handling the intense frenzy of dedicated MMORPG players yelling into their mics and blowing his headphones. Plus, he wasn’t in the mood for any fantasy games. He missed Jordan, sat beside him, mocking how none of the warlocks in World of Warcraft were a patch on Magnus, and how red leather jeans should be compulsory for all wizards. And so, in memory, he slid the game into the disc drive they always agreed on, and loaded the start screen.

It always fell to this; a game with enough action and tactics to please Jordan, and the perfect amount of logic and decision-making to satisfy Simon. Yes, he thought, hitting play, this was the best.

 Shortly thereafter, the doorbell rang so loudly - and so screechingly; perhaps he should see the landlord about that - that he jumped so violently he killed his own onscreen teammate by accident. Oh well, he wouldn’t live much longer alone anyway. He left the game on as he went to answer the door.

Sat atop the railing that ran the perimeter of the communal balcony/hall, was Isabelle Lightwood. Her hair blew back in the wind from the height, her leather-heel open-toed shoes just brushing the concrete floor. Simon’s heart lurched. He told himself it was because if she leant back, she would almost certainly fall the six storeys and die; a thought which petrified him. Not that he thought she looked beautiful.

“Hi,” she said, sliding lightly off the rail. Simon’s heart faltered at the conundrum: speed up at her voice or slow down at her safety?

“Simon?” she added, and his heart made the decision to race. “Can I come in, or do I have to hang around out here? Some huge guy called Mike from a few doors down had already tried to lure me away from here into what he called ‘party central’. However,” she brushed past Simon into the apartment and gave it a quick survey. “If all the apartments are like this, your raves must suck if this place is ‘party central’.”

“Mick.” Simon said, as Izzy helped herself to a mug and began making instant coffee.

“Hm?” she asked, filling the tiny kettle with water. 

“The man’s name: Mick. Not Mike.”

Isabelle shot him a puzzled look. “Okay?”

"It doesn’t matter.” Simon hastened to add, beginning to feel the stupidity of his comment. “I’m not personally offended you don’t know my asshole neighbour’s name."

“Good.” Izzy said. “Do you want coffee?”

 After accepting the offer of his own coffee (the stale taste of which the both of them were delicately ignoring), they went over to the couch. Simon loved their couch but when Isabelle sat herself down on it he became suddenly and immensely aware of its numerous inadequacies; it was dusty and stained, with lumpy stuffing and what looked to be a spring poking out near Isabelle’s knee. Her legs, bare in her short crimson dress, bounced gently against the seat cushion and she reached into her bag.

“What were you doing?” Izzy asked, peering into the main compartment of her purse. “Before I got here, I mean.”

“Oh, just playing video games,” he replied, gesturing to the screen. His fellow gamer had disconnected - which Simon had kind of expected after he’d shot the guy and then gone MIA. “Um, do you want to play?”

Isabelle cast him a truly confused look.

“No?” she said, puzzled, and turned back to her bag.

Simon nodded. He should’ve known. He might not remember everything about Isabelle, but she clearly wasn’t a gamer.

“You play.” Izzy said, pulling a pen and some sheets of paper from her bag. “I have to do some stuff for my mom.”

“Oh, okay.” Simon nodded, and queued up a solo game. He figured he’d be pretty distracted with Izzy sat beside him, and he had a reputation to maintain. “Why did you bring your work here? Why not do it at the Institute?”

“You called me over,” Izzy pointed out, shuffling papers. “Remember?”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have minded if you’d taken a raincheck or come over later if you were busy.”

She paused. “It was too loud anyway. I couldn’t concentrate.” Simon knocked the TV volume down a few numbers. “I have to do all this inventory for my mom and reply to these letters.” Izzy explained, sighing. "She’d normally do it, but she’s sorting some stuff out with my dad. Divorce stuff. Clave stuff. Nasty.” She grimaced and Simon decided not to push the topic further.  

“Why was it too loud at the Institute?” he asked instead, eyes flitting between the game onscreen and the side profile of the girl sat beside him.

“Jace and Alec, driving me crazy.” She muttered, in fond irritation. “They’re currently attempting to install a small trebuchet.”

“I didn’t know they made small ones.” Simon commented.

“They don’t. But trust me, in comparison to the one Jace wanted to get, this one is tiny. Alec was stuck under it when I left.”

“Is he okay?” Simon exclaimed, concerned.

Izzy shrugged. “He’ll be fine, he has Jace.” She assured him, and the two fell into silence.

 When Izzy finally finished working, Simon turned to her again.

“You sure you don’t want to play?” he offered, nodding to the screen as his onscreen character threw himself over a wall to avoid an incoming of enemy grenades. Izzy shook her head, black hair whipping back and forth in inky curtain.

“No, I do that kind of thing every day in my real life. I don’t need to do it in a game too.”

Simon could understand that reasoning, he guessed. However, for him, it was the opposite; where he failed in his real life shadowhunter training, he excelled in those areas in video games. He guessed if you were as badass as Izzy in real life, you didn’t have to live vicariously through badass game personas.

Beside him, Isabelle kicked off her shoes and tucked her small bare feet up under her. Simon glanced down to see her toenails painted a deep plum purple, matching her bag. Simon didn’t give a thought in a morning to whether his hoodie matched his shirt. Girls were so weird like that. He heard gunshots onscreen and began firing sporadically, slamming buttons in futility. He flung his character in a building and through the door as Izzy watched silently. He could feel her tense with unsaid words she needed to blurt.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t have gone in that building,” she uttered suddenly. “That was a terrible strategy. They’ll surround the exits and kill you as you try to escape. You should leave now.”

"I’m low on health. If I get shot now, it’d kill me,” Simon reasoned, and forced himself not to add ‘And you don’t even play, so how would you know?’

“Hand me that,” Izzy demanded, holding out her hand for Simon’s controller. Sceptically, Simon handed it over, understanding he had little choice in the matter. Furthermore, he didn’t want his character to die, and he thought refusing to hand over control could bode worse than Isabelle simply being terrible. Wordlessly, he handed it over.

He began rapidly reeling off the functions of all the buttons and sticks as Izzy positioned her hands on the slick black plastic.

“Okay, okay.” Izzy said, and flung Simon’s onscreen character from his secure sheltered building and out into the violence-ridden ether, making Simon’s stomach turn.

 Simon watched as his beautiful ex-girlfriend navigated the character onscreen over a wall before breaking into a dead sprint across an empty stretch of land - surviving by some of supernatural miracle - before taking cover behind a huge dumpster and firing at his opponents with such pinpoint accuracy Simon wondered if she was using cheat codes. Upon launching a grenade into the centre of the group of enemies currently so clearly freaking out, killing the last three adversaries in one single majestic explosion, Izzy handed Simon his controller back.

“That was kind of fun.” She smiled, running a hand through her hair.

Simon nodded. Man, gamer Izzy was so hot. Maybe she’d be into D&D too? That might be pushing it.

“Can I play?” Izzy asked, and Simon grinned.

“Sure, yeah...you wanna keep playing this or would you prefer, like, Portal or something?”

Izzy wrinkled her nose adorably. ”Portal? Like, interdimensional shadowhunter transport portals?”

Simon laughed. “Not quite. We’ll stick with this game.” He passed her back the controller as he retrieved the other from under the sofa. “You have that one,” he offered. “It’s way better. The stick on this one jams a little.”

“What a gentleman.” Izzy giggled.

She tied her hair up into a quick bun, strands hanging loose around her face, softening her features somehow, taking some of the dark, hard intensity from her deep brown eyes.

“Let’s do this, Lewis.” She grinned. “You’re going down.”

Simon soon found out that Izzy was a lot better at video games than she seemed. After she had shot him enough to diminish his health bar to concerning minimum, he resorted to...underhand tactics. As his health refilled quickly, she cast him an accusing look.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

“Codes.” Simon shrugged.

“You cheater!” Izzy cried, looking furious. 

Simon laughed. “Pro gamer perks.”

“Nerd.” She grinned, and shoved him with an elbow pointy enough to make him squawk and make his onscreen character fire a bullet into the sky at random.

“Oh, it’s on, Lightwood.”

He nodded. “Oh, it’s so on.”

 Izzy sat back as Simon refilled their mugs of coffee. He didn’t really suppose she particularly wanted his out-of-date drinks, or the stale-ish tasting cake he brought with it, but his mom had always taught him that houseguests must always be kept sufficiently fed and watered. Or caked and coffeed, in this case. Isabelle was so beautiful, Simon thought, and another fragment of memory slotted back into place in the mosaic of his past. He remembered a window, Izzy, drinking blood Raphael gave him. He remembered Clary trying to subdue him in his intoxicated state, Aline and Helen watching in amusement. He remembered Robert Lightwood attempting to ward him off - to no avail; Simon was Jewish.

“Isabelle, let down your raven hair.” Simon said, hoping he had recalled correctly.

She looked across, eyes dawning in realisation at the memory. Silently, she reached a hand to the nape of her neck and released curtains of inky hair from its bun.

“If you say so,” she smiled. “Lord Montgomery.”

He cocked his head, puzzled. “Who?”

“It was a character you played once.” She explained, her smile verging on a laugh, nostalgic. “I was a poor, innocent maiden.”

At this, she did laugh. Unlike when she usually told Simon about his past, this time she didn’t seem frustrated or disappointed he didn’t remember. She seemed happy to tell him about it, regardless of whether or not he himself recalled the event.

“Like cosplay?” Simon offered. It seemed unlikely. When Izzy looked confused, he shook his head. “Never mind.”

Izzy stood up. “I ought to get back to the Institute, check Alec isn’t still stuck under that trebuchet, that Jace hasn’t already used it to blow a hole in the wall.”

Simon nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

He stood up, followed her to the door, heart sinking to see her go. They had been getting along like friends, or...

“Will you come back?” he asked. “Come over again?”

“Yeah, of course.” She smiled. “Or you come to the Institute. Whatever. But, more likely, I’ll come here. I get kind of stir crazy at home, with Jace and Alec and my parents. And plus,” she grinned. “Your place has the added allure of video games.”

He laughed and she leaned over and kissed his cheek softly. His heart leapt. Inside his stomach and chest and brain, everything went into overdrive. As his body fell into hers, reminded him exactly why he loved her so much, she pulled back.

”Don’t get any ideas.” She said, smiling. “That was just for giving me the good controller.”

Then she left, and Simon watched her skip downstairs. Isabelle Lightwood, he thought bemusedly with a sigh. Isabelle Lightwood, his badass, whip-wielding, heel-wearing, lipsticked gamer.

He had to win her back.